Changing Fate
by Spirit of a Rose
Summary: Gwen Brenin is an Einzbern pawn, plucked from obscurity to fight in the Sixth Grail War. But the Grail is crumbling, the laws of magic are breaking, and the enemy Masters are more vicious than ever. Oh, and she's got the most infuriating Servant ever. Not that she would ever tell the King of Heroes that. And she happens to be cursed. But really, how hard can winning be?
1. The Pyre

**CHAPTER ONE**

The Pyre

 _April 23rd, 1746_

 _Portsmouth, England_

They drag her out of her cell at dawn.

Strangers turn to stare as the soldiers march past. Street rats, prowling for full pockets, glance curiously at her and move on. The farmers with their battered carts and drunkards stumbling home from the pubs give her a cursory glance. She feels their leering gazes on her tattered white shift, the only article of clothing the guardsmen let her keep. She lifts her head high and marches on.

The main square is beginning to fill, even though the sun is still crawling above the dusky horizon. The soldiers have to force their way through, shoving her in their wake. The growing crowd jeers and throws stones and rotting vegetables. One hits a guard. He curses and draws his sword. The crowd shifts back, but the missiles and taunts keep coming. She ignores them. Worse is the way some of the women look at her, the ones who don't mock or laugh. The ones who know there is no point in taunting the dead.

The pyre looms up in front of her, a rough-made stack of wood sloshed with oil. She catches her breath, fighting to stay calm as the soldiers drag her onto the tiny platform and bind her to the metal stake.

"Estelle d'Eustre, of France," the herald intones. "You are hereby charged with crimes against the Crown. Your crimes include murder of the king's soldiers-"

"Self defense," she mutters.

"Treason against your country's allies-"

She scoffs despite her fear. As if the so-called alliance between England and France was anything more than a farce.

"Repeated crimes of larceny, defacement of the king's property, blasphemy against the Church of England-"

She'll be damned if she lets that one pass. "Heresy!" she shouts. The crowd erupts. "Shut her up!"

"French whore!"

"Burn her!"

She listens impassively. She's heard worse in her father's stables.

"And commandeering a vessel of the British Royal Navy," the herald finishes, undeterred. "For your crimes against His Majesty and the Crown, you are hereby sentenced to burn until death. Do you have any final words?"

"Burn her!" someone shouts, and the crowd cheers. She watches stonily. "Yes," she says and looks at the herald. " _Brûle en enfer_."

The crowd murmurs. The herald, however, is an educated man. The corners of his mouth twist downward. He turns to the soldiers. "Burn her."

The crowd roars its approval. A soldier lights a torch. She flinches away from the dark liquid puddling at her feet. Fear clogs her chest. She takes a shuddering breath. Smoke stings her lungs.

The soldier hefts the torch. Their eyes meet, wide pleading blue-grey to flat brown. The soldier is young, the first traces of a beard on his round face.

He tosses the torch. The pyre erupts.

Estelle screams. Flame licks her skin. She gasps and screams again as heat sears her lungs. The metal chains burn into her skin. She arches her back in agony. Pain scrambles her thoughts. She can hear Papa's voice.

 _Be strong,_ mon coeur.

She screams again. The crowd is watching, taut with anticipation. The flames rise to block the sea of faces.

Raphael's voice. Dear, beloved Raphael. _You will change the world, I know it._

She can hear Mama screaming as the men drag her out of the house.

The fire is inside her skin. Her lungs are burning. The sky has gone black.

Fire. Pain.

And a voice, unfamiliar and far away. A girl chanting.

"I hereby propose..."

Agony.

"...If thou dost accede to this will and reason, answer me!"

And another Voice. Emotionless. Inhuman. _What do you choose?_

It can't end like this. There must be more. There must be!

 _I can grant your wish._

My wish?

She falls into darkness, a nothingness that takes away the pain. The girl's voice grows louder. "I hereby swear. I will be all that is good in the eternal world. I will be the disposer of evil in the eternal world."

A circle of light appears in the darkness. The voice is coming from it. "Thou, the seven days clad in the great Trinity, come forth from the circle of constraint. Come, Guardian of the Heavenly Scales!"

 _What do you choose?_ the Voice demands.

She steps into the circle.

And the world transforms.

 **A/N**

So after much overthinking writer's block oh yes and college debate, I went back and rewrote the entirety of _Changing Fate_ to fit my original plot. The good news: the stubborn writer's block on this story has (finally) been overcome. The bad(?): I'm erasing the old version and replacing it. Thank you so, so much to the amazing peoples who have come to continue this story with me, and welcome to all the new crowd! *crickets*

Please comment on what you think of the new and improved _Changing Fate!_

 **SpiritofaRose**


	2. The Pawn

**CHAPTER TWO**

The Pawn

 _October 16, 2055_

 _Fuyuki, Japan_

The train rocks sideways on its tracks. The fifteen-year-old girl, her blue hood pulled low over her face, clutches the metal pole tighter and watches the city lights flick past through the dark windows. She tugs the sleeve of the man standing besides her. "Gil, look," she says in accented German, drawing curious looks from the other passengers, and points.

The man glances idly out the window. "We've arrived. Good. I find all this traveling wearisome." He curls his lip at the crying toddler on the seat across from him. "Especially when we must travel alongside common peasants."

The girl barely listens. Gil's been grumbling ever since they boarded the plane back in Germany, two days ago. She wraps her mittened fingers around the dirty metal and leans forward to look past the reflection of the train lights. Through the smeared fingerprints and scratched glass she can just make out the first of the towering buildings racing towards them. She sucks in her breath in excitement and promptly starts to cough. The Japanese businessman beside her shifts away and politely covers his mouth and nose with his scarf. She grimaces apologetically before another series of coughs rack her lungs. The toddler yanks on his mother's coat, his high clear voice carrying over the rattle of the train and murmur of voices. "Mommy, look!"

Gil touches her shoulder. Mana flows into her like a cool cloth, settling in her throat and lungs. The coughing fit eases. She clears her aching throat. "Thanks," she mumbles.

Gil's grip tightens painfully. "The air is unclean here," he remarks, digging blunt nails through her four layers of clothing and into her shoulder. "It is not fit for a king."

"Or a peasant girl, apparently," the girl mutters. "And I know you don't like it, but we have to be here." She glances around at the bored passengers and switches to her native Welsh. "Elder Ulrich wants us to establish a base here before the other Masters arrive." She pries his fingers off her shoulder. "And besides," she adds, switching back to German, "it's almost an entire year by ourselves." She counts off on her fingers. "No elders, no more tutors, no more dusty grimoires...just you and me and a whole city to ourselves." She can barely keep from wriggling with excitement.

The toddler is still tugging his mother's arm and pointing to them. "Mommy!"

"Shh," his mother says absently, pulling him back onto her lap.

Gil is less enthused. "I have been to this city many times. Each time it grows more crowded and filthy. I refuse to spend so much unnecessary time here. We shall find a suitable establishment on the outskirts of the city and I shall remain there. You are free to do as you please."

"If I die, you do too," she reminds him. Gil's frown deepens. "Shall I lock you in a cage then to keep you safe?" he inquires, very, very politely, his scarlet cats' eyes narrowing to slits. Her happy wriggle turns into a squirm. "No..."

"Mommy, look! That man looks like Neko-chan!"

"Don't point, Tamaki, it's rude."

Gil sneers elegantly at the excited toddler and goes back to slouching against the edge of the seat. "I do not see why I must stay materialized," he complains.

She ignores him. The train is slowing down. A monotonous female voice crackles through the intercom system in blurred Japanese. "Approaching Hirigana Station. Please back away from the doors. Thank you very much."

Outside the night sky has turned back into dusk from the glow of the streetlights. Rows of dark office buildings flicker like electronic stars. The train slides into the station and shudders to a stop. She braces herself against the jolt, her heart beating faster.

A rough hand yanks her hood back. She starts, reaching up instinctively as dark curls spill down her back. Gil finds a stray strand and tugs, hard, his favorite trick when he's annoyed. "Gwenhwyfar," he says, using her full name even though he knows full well she hates it. "Do _not_ ignore me."

Strangers brush past them, swarming through the open doors. She starts to follow, but Gil has a firm grip on her hair. "This is not a game, little Master," he says, his scarlet eyes glittering. "We are not here so that you can revel in your pretend freedom."

She stiffens. "I know that," she says tersely, and stops, surprised, as a small hand tugs on her dark cargo pants. The toddler peers up at her with wide slanted dark eyes. He catches sight of Gil behind her and gives a delighted cry. "Neko-chan!"

His mother swoops down on him. "I am very sorry," she says in heavily accented English, and switches back to Japanese to scold her son as she hustles him off of the train. Gil looks bemused. "What did that child call me?"

Gwen laughs. "A -" She changes what she was about to say. "A lion," she says, and grins up at him. "He thought you were a lion."

Gil lets go of her hair, mollified. "An intelligent child, for a mongrel," he says, and stands. "Come, Gwenhwyfar."

"It's just Gwen," she mutters for the millionth time, but she follows him out into the harsh fluorescent lights of the station. "And besides," she says, her grey-blue eyes dancing, "you never would have chosen me if you didn't think I could win."

Gil snorts. "Do not flatter yourself so, Gwenhwyfar. You are still far too inexperienced and naive, and the Grail Wars have broken Masters far stronger than you." He smirks. "Still...with enough time and proper guidance, you may yet prove an interesting pawn."

"Even pawns can be queens," she says, jogging to keep up with his long strides. He takes her mittened hand before the crowd can part them and pulls her along in his wake. The station is full of people, even though it's almost midnight, but strangers give way before Gil as if they can sense the power emanating from him. "True," he says, and looks down at her. The harsh lighting glints off his blonde hair and casts deep shadows over the angular lines of his face, the strong straight line of the nose and the wide mouth slightly down-turned at the corners. Only his eyes are inhuman, the pupils black slits, the irises deep wine-red and infinite. He radiates power and arrogance.

She knows with simple certainty that the moment they stepped out into the station, every Master in Fuyuki felt it. The weaker ones will hide and watch and wait, and the strong– the strong will come for them, because they will also have heard of the newest Master, the third-rate mage sent by the Einzberns as a desperate final attempt at the Grail.

"They will come," Gil says, reading her thoughts. "They will expect another pawn."

She tightens her grip on his hand. Overhead the city breaks into full view. The crisp night air bites her lungs and stings her skin. She can almost feel the power in the ley lines beneath her feet, hear the whisper of magic in the wind. Gil blazes like a small sun beside her, almost blotting out the night in her magical vision. Her command seals are hot on her collarbone.

"Then they will find a Queen," she says, and tilts her face into the wind and smiles at her first taste of freedom.


	3. The Game Begins

**CHAPTER THREE**

The Game Begins

 _October 18, 2055_

 _Fuyuki, Japan_

He's lost count of the years.

Time ceases to matter. He roams the abandoned apartment complex restlessly, trapped inside the narrow stretch of cracked cement and crumbling concrete buildings, tethered to the spot where he died.

No one comes here. There are rumors that the place is haunted, even though to his knowledge he's never been seen. His body, translucent and torn between the pseudo–life and temporary death of Heroic Spirits, is barely more than a silhouette, shadowy features and transparent skin hung on opaque bones that flicker and fade with each breath of wind. The apartment complex is almost as destitute. Every so often the distant rumble of traffic creeps nearer, or he sees headlights flashing through the fog, but the complex remains empty, as though the reek of death lingers, and even though the bodies have long rotted away the memories are as trapped here as he is.

The blood stains on the pitted cement have washed away. The bones have crumbled and been scattered throughout the complex by wild animals, but the broken wheelchair remains where it had been thrown onto its side on the far end of the parking lot, rusted and twisted but miraculously still in one piece. Sometimes the upended wheel creaks slowly, turned by an unfelt breeze. He gives it a wide berth on his rounds.

In a way, he's grateful. No matter how many times his death replays in his mind, no matter how many times he feels the spear plunge into his chest by his own unwilling hands, no matter how many times he searches his mind for the shock on her face as he lashes out, screaming at her, at all of them, at the cruelty of this war and this world, no matter how many times the pain and guilt and shame and despair consume him anew– no matter how many times, it is still better than the nightmare he was forced to live before. After all, even this purgatory pales in comparison to Hell.

So he wanders the complex, and listens to the faint sounds of the city, and replays the memories, and slowly grows used to the silence.

He is a fluke, an exception, and for once in his short life and centuries of service he counts himself lucky.

After all, purgatory is better than Hell.

* * *

Gwen straightens up and rubs the dust from her itching eyes. The stiff beige sofa emits another cloud of dust and settles firmly back onto its clawed wooden feet. She scowls.

The manor Elder Ulrich had directed them to had, according to the message he'd sent along with strict instructions for her, originally belonged to an old mage family almost as prestigious as the Einzberns. The line was dying out and and the last remaining heir had rented it out before they fled Fuyuki before the onset of the Grail War.

 _Stay well-hidden,_ the letter instructed in crisp old-fashioned German. _Do not reveal your intentions or presence to any other magus. Investigate the local ley lines carefully and prepare your defenses well. Do not waste the time I have given you. This is a time for careful preparation and rigid discipline, not childish exploration._ (She rolled her eyes– the old man knew her a little too well.) _And above all, Gör, do not allow the Servant to leave the manor grounds lest the other Masters become aware of his power._

It went on, dictating the location of the nearby ley lines, including the one that ran directly underneath the manor and the spells she should use to harness its power, and ended with another harsh warning about her "foolish ideas" and her apparently "lax control of the Servant." She rolled her eyes again and handed the telegram to Gil before he could twitch his fingers impatiently at her a second time.

Gil read it with thinly veiled disinterest and crumpled it when he was done. "Control me, indeed," he muttered, and snapped his fingers and incinerated the telegram. "What an utterly foolish idea." He marched out of the entryway and down a flight of stairs as if he had lived there all his life. There was a mage's study in the basement, cluttered with dusty tomes and heavy wooden furniture. The faint outline of a summoning circle could still be seen etched into the worn stone floor. Gil strode past, wrinkling his nose at all the dust, and vanished into the next room. It was spartan by contrast, the bare stone walls at odds with the single red velvet sofa and sleek low table in front of it. Gil sprawled down on the sofa and summoned a jar of wine and a heavy golden goblet, ignoring her. Gwen left him to sulk there and went back upstairs to explore the rest of the manor.

Compared to the sprawling Einzbern castle, it's almost tiny, but she rather likes the sleek wood walls and elegant antique furniture. There is a formal living room, a study, a surprisingly modern kitchen, and three bedrooms on the second floor along with two old-fashioned bathrooms.

She loves all of it, even the dust– at least, until she tries to clean it. Then she discovers that there are cobwebs in every corner, the kitchen has mold spreading behind the refrigerator and the heavy carved furniture is almost impossible for her to move by herself. And naturally Gil is nowhere to be found.

She tries anyway, moving what she can, scrubbing down every spare inch and sweeping until the clouds of dust forces her to stop. Her first two days of freedom sweep by unnoticed.

Gil finds her on the evening of the second day, buried in a stack of ancient grimoires and coughing as she tries to sort through them. The sound of his deep voice behind her makes her start so violently she bumps the biggest stack of books. It teeters and starts to topple over. She yelps.

Gil catches it and tosses the books at her feet. "I had wondered where you were. Your aura had grown weak." His pale brows draw together. "How long have you tarried here amidst the dust?"

"I'm just–" her voice cracks, hoarse from coughing. She clears her voice and tries again in a whisper. "I'm just finishing up. Gil, look. Some of these are ancestral tomes, spells passed down through the family for generations. Did you know the mage who used to live here is descended from Ptolemy? Some of these spells are _amazing_. I've only gotten through half of them, but look." She seizes a nearby tome and heaves it into her lap. "See?" She jabs a finger at the frail parchment, where a row of hieroglyphs break the faded Greek text. "It says this is copied from Amenhotep's tomb. I _knew_ the ancient Egyptians had spells for harnessing the power of ley lines– what else could the pyramids be for?– but Herr Eiden never believed me." She looks up triumphantly, her sea-clouded eyes shining. "If these spells work, I can cast a barrier strong enough that no one will be able to break it. I'll have the most powerful base of all the Masters. Gil, I _knew_ I could do it, I just knew–" Her voice breaks again. She ducks her head and starts to hack.

Gil doesn't look at the page, now covered by her dark hair as she doubles over. Dust smears her arms and faded blue dress and paints premature grey streaks in her thick hair. His frown deepens. He reaches down and grips her arm and hauls her to her feet as she coughs. "Enough," he says. "I grow weary of this place."

She tries to answer and winces. Gil lets go of her arm to touch her throat with rough fingers. Her mana is at half its usual strength, and it takes more of his personal store than he likes before her coughing fit eases and she can speak without pain. "Sorry," she croaks, and clears her throat. "I'm almost done. I've already finished cleaning upstairs and one of the bedrooms. Just one more day–"

"I have already said it is enough. I am weary of the dust of this place."

She sighs, knowing better than to argue. "All right. Let me go wash and get changed first."

"Do not keep me waiting," he warns, but the edge has gone out of his voice.

"I know." She stoops and picks up the tome that had fallen out of her lap. Brilliant motes of light shimmer behind her as Gil dematerializes. She sneezes (immaterial spirit particles make her nose itch) and makes her way upstairs.

The bathroom is Victorian, with plumbing that was probably built in along with the invention of the light bulb. She waits for the water to turn from liquid ice to steam, shifting from bare foot to foot on the cold tile. The hot water scalds her skin as she clambers over the high sides of the massive porcelain tub and sinks into it with a drawn-out sigh of contentment.

She stays in there for a good hour, and takes another twenty minutes to drag herself out, towel herself off and find clothes that aren't from WWII. Her only pair of jeans are dirty from travel, and she only brought a few dresses. After a few indecisive minutes posing in front of the tarnished mirror, she finally picks a navy blue buttoned-down shirt and a long black skirt that hides her boots. She looks like a schoolgirl, but it's better than the high-necked old-fashioned dresses Fraulein Sessemann made her wear.

She really needs new clothes, she thinks, and sighs and opens the bedroom door.

Gil shimmers back into existence as she walks out into the brisk sunlight. He's wearing modern clothes again, she notices, not the gold-embroidered robes he preferred at the castle. Today it's a long white jacket over a crimson shirt and close-fitting black pants. His golden hair is casually brushed back and he's wearing dark sunglasses to hide his eyes.

He looks like a model, she thinks, and sighs again. So much for not attracting attention.

"All right," she says, trotting to keep up with his long strides as they turn down the winding road leading to the city. She starts to unfold the map and promptly trips over her own feet. Gil glances back as the map flutters out of her hands. His pale brows shoot up, but he makes no comment as he tugs the map out of midair. Gwen takes it back, flushing, and hastily puts it back into her satchel along with the money and instructions Elder Ulrich sent.

"So the first ley line is by Ryu– Ryu–" she stumbles over the unfamiliar Japanese pronunciation. "By the temple," she says exasperatedly, and looks around. The sun is just beginning to set over the the skyline of the city to the west. To the east, jutting out of the rising hills, are sloping roofs and an unmistakable line of stairs cut into the mountain. Gwen frowns. "So if the temple's over there, and the city's this way..." She swivels. "Then we should be heading up the road."

"The ley lines will wait," Gil says, already sauntering downhill. "If my memory serves me correctly, there is an excellent establishment where they serve mapo tofu in the city."

"Mapo what?" Gwen jogs after him. "Gil, wait!"

"Prepare to have your senses overcome, little Master," Gil says without slowing down. "If you survive the experience, I shall even purchase suitable attire for you. I believe there was a store downtown that had the most curious clothes. And, of course, we shall revisit the local bars. There was one with exceptional beer, not as good as my own stores of course, but with a delicate quality worthy of a king..."

"Gil, this isn't a shopping trip. Elder Ulrich–"

"The Einzbern elder knows nothing of pleasure. Clearly he has taught you the same dull taste for life." He looks back at her, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. "Come, Gwenhwyfar. It is well past time for you to experience the true joys of life."

Gwen stops, opens her mouth to argue, then closes it and shakes her head. "All right," she says, and starts to laugh. She can't help it; she's been itching to go out and explore and get a taste of freedom ever since they arrived. She can feel Gil's anticipation pulsing through their bond, making her giddy with adrenaline. She trots to catch up again. "But just tonight, alright? We really do have to start building our defenses, and find the ley lines, and prepare–"

"All in good time," Gil says. "But tonight we shall feast and drink, as befitting the arrival of a king."

He really is in a rare good mood tonight, she thinks, glancing sideways at him. The dying light glints off his hair and turns his pale skin to statuesque ivory as he throws his head back proudly. She ignores the warning voice in the back of her mind that whispers that they shouldn't go outside yet, that they have no defenses yet and every Master in the city will be looking for them.

She's with Gil. Nothing can hurt her.

She slips her fingers in his. His hand is dry and callused and easily envelops hers, making her feel like a child again. "And queen," she says recklessly.

Gil laughs and rumples her hair with his free hand. "Not yet, little Master," he says mockingly. "Not yet."

* * *

Mapo tofu turns out to be a steaming bowl of noodles and sauce that tastes like hellfire. She holds a napkin to her running nose and blinks her burning, aching eyes while Gil finishes off his bowl and starts on hers. "Impressive, is it not?"

"Impressive isn't the word I'd use," she says grimly, and he throws his head back and laughs uproariously.

They find a Western-themed restaurant where the food doesn't try to kill her. Gwen eats ravenously, but not as ravenously as Gil, who downs two hamburgers, three bowls of soup, two bottles of a wine she can't pronounce and three-quarters of a chocolate raspberry cake.

She finishes her slice of cake slowly, licking the chocolate off her fingers and sipping the glass of wine Gil insisted she try. Her stomach is very full and her head is pleasantly cloudy by the time they leave, and all she wants to do is go back to the manor and sleep, but Gil has other plans.

So she follows him sleepily through the shopping complex while he keeps up a running narrative on the quality of modern clothing and how strange the styles have become since last he was summoned, all while an assortment of clerks switch from metaphorically licking his boots to kicking them out of the store.

"Aha! This coat pleases me. Gwenhwyfar, carry this."

"Sir, the girl cannot accompany you inside the mens' changing station-"

"Cease prattling and fetch me another of those leopard-skin pants, servant."

"Gil, you can't just call people servants -pardon us, sir- _Gil!"_

They reemerge several hours later, Gil triumphantly storing bag after bag in his Gate. "A fine collection," he muses.

Gwen covers a yawn. "Are we done yet?"

"Hardly. Come, Gwenhwyfar, we must attire you accordingly."

"Gil, it's almost ten _-Gil!"_

It's almost one by the time they finally head back. Gil probably could have gone on all night, but she falls asleep in the second bar and almost gets kidnapped before her Servant notices the two men trying to hustle her outside.

She wakes up again to Gil setting her down in her bed in the manor. She burrows under the crisp sheets gratefully. "What time is it?" she asks drowsily.

"Nearly two in your mortal time."

"Oh." She squints blearily at the dark curtains. "Wake me up if anything happens."

Glittering gold greets hers as he dematerializes without a reply. She's asleep again before her head hits the pillow.

* * *

She dreams of Wales.

She's six, sitting cross-legged on the low stone wall while her _Nain_ scrubs clothes through the old-fashioned washer. The fresh bruises on her knees throb.

"Why can't I use magic?" she whines. "I like it."

The old woman pauses to stretch her back with a groan. "Everything comes at a cost, Gwen," she says sternly. Her Welsh is rough and melodic, like Gwen's scratchy wool blanket. "Even magic."

"Then I'll pay it." She swings her bare feet out over the lush grass, ignoring the bitter sting of the wind sweeping over the hills. "You use your magic."

"Aye, and I've paid for it, too. T'ain't worth the cost, Gwen. Now stop flapping your sails and help an old woman with her chores."

She heaves a sigh and slips off the wall. Her feet hit cold stone.

"This is your duty," Elder Ulrich is saying. He fixes her with pale blue eyes, tucking his wrinkled hands into his wide grey sleeves. "If I hear of you taking it lightly again, you shall be punished accordingly."

Gwen shifts, locking and unlocking her cold fingers behind her back as she struggles to decipher the thick German. "Ja," she says.

The old man nods to her companion. "Fraulein Sessemann?"

The Fraulein rests a hard callused hand on her shoulder. "When you speak to the elder, you must say 'ja, Meister,' understand?" She shakes her roughly.

"Ja, Fraulein _."_ Her eyes slant towards the elder. "Ja, Meister."

Elder Ulrich nods. "Call for the tutors," he tells Sessemann. "Tell Herr Karr. I want her to begin the next level tomorrow."

Sessemann's knobbly fingers dig into Gwen's shoulder. "Ja, Meister Ulrich."

She is pushed down the winding stone corridors and into a windowless room. The woman turns on the sputtering gaslight and grips the door. "I shall come for you when it is time for supper," she says, and shuts the door firmly and locks it.

The hollow clang of the lock jolts through her. She opens her eyes. Crimson slits glow in the darkness above her. She bolts up as another clang ripples through the air like a shattered bell. Gil steps back. Gold gleams off his heavy armor.

"We are under attack," he says curtly, and the third clang rattles her bones like a thunderclap.

 **A/N**

Rewriting something for the millionth time? What? *hysterical laughter*


	4. Enemy at the Gates

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Enemy at the Gates

 _October 19, 2055_

 _Fuyuki, Japan_

Gwen stares at him blankly. "Wh-what?"

Gil's scarlet eyes flare in the darkness. "The enemy is at our gates. _Move_ ," he says, and the snap in his voice is like a slap. She tumbles out of bed obediently, still dazed. "But– how-" Her German slurs to Welsh. "Gil, what's going on–"

" _Now_ , Gwenhwyfar," Gil says curtly, and vanishes. She stumbles out the door, almost tripping down the uneven stairs. "Gil, wait!"

Another clang shudders the floor under her feet. The dull ache in her temples intensifies, which means the sensation is magical, not physical. Now that she's awake, she can feel the sharp tug of the barrier surrounding the manor as her mana bond strains thin. She runs to the front door.

Halfway down the hall a fifth clang sends spikes of pain into her skull. She staggers and falls against the wall, gasping as she feels the barrier shudder and crack. Pain blocks out the panic building in her chest like an icy fist.

She stops moving. Her mind races, overcompensating for the pain. A thousand insignificant details flood her senses: the hardwood floor is cold beneath her bare feet, the stupid lacy grey-white nightgown Fraulein Sessemann gave her clings to the back of her knees, pain is gripping her head like a vise and she knows suddenly that she will remember this moment, that one day in the future her mind will go blank and she will be here again, with cold bare toes and a gross old nightgown and pain and shock blocking the panic trying to shoot adrenaline through her veins.

Assuming she lives that long. Which she probably won't if she keeps standing here staring at the front door like a deer in headlights.

The pain ebbs. She runs to the front door and slams her palms against the thick wood. Mana pours through her like an electric current, gluing her hands to the door and threading each vein with liquid power. She takes a deep breath and pushes it back out, following the current of blue fire as it streams into the barrier enveloping the manor.

She exhales. The barrier relaxes with her as fresh mana fills it. Discomfort niggles from one corner. She follows the feeling outside, to the rune etched in the front gates in blood. There's a jagged crack stemming from it, creeping its way up to the top of the barrier.

Now her mind works. Magic is something she knows how to deal with. She pours herself into the barrier, pressing herself thin to spread herself in every fiery vein of mana. The barrier ripples like water around her, shimmering blue walls of liquid fire. She takes another deep breath and grabs a fistful of mana from either side of the gate and yanks her hands together. The rune flares bright blue, both from the overflow of mana and her direct contact with the blood bond. The crack ripples shut.

Gwen releases her grip. Now, with her consciousness merged with the barrier, she can sense the mage standing in front of the gates, their arms raised as they chant in Latin.

Spell-magic, Gwen thinks grimly. There's no chemical scarring on the rune, so the mage must be word-based, not alchemaic. Maybe oath-magic or Necromancy. The mage is a bright silhouette in her magical vision, but nothing compared to Gil's inferno. Still, it's a little brighter than she'd like. She's never dealt with a first-class mage before.

 _Deep breaths. Magic is about control,_ Herr Karr raps out in her mind. She scowls automatically as her lungs fill. She can't sense the mage's Servant– they must be dematerialized. No sane mage would go up against a rival Master's base without their own Servant. A Saber or Berserker would attack head-on. That leaves Caster, Assassin, Lancer, and Rider. Gil's Archer rank outclasses both Assassin and Lancer easily, depending on their Noble Phantasms. A Rider is the biggest threat, but so long as the barrier holds–

" _Deleo et victi!"_ the mage says loudly, their voice reverberating through the barrier to where Gwen's body is still pressed against the door. She grits her teeth as red fire explodes against the barrier. The clang jolts through her physical body. She ignores the discomfort, funneling every ounce of concentration she has into the blood bond. The barrier holds strong.

The mage points again. " _Deleo_!" Her voice rings out like a bell, striking the barrier with a clang. " _Victi_!"

This time the barrier doesn't even ripple. Gwen grins. If the mage is trying to bring down her blood bond with brute force, then she's sorely underestimating her. Her blood bond is tied directly to her magic circuits, not to a spell. The rune is only a placeholder, like an alarm system. The moment she's in physical contact with the barrier it can't be broken until she runs out of mana. It's an old, old spell, but the Einzberns are masters of forgotten magecraft. She's never been so grateful to them.

The mage's voice sharpens. " _Lacero,_ " she commands. Gwen tenses, but her hold on the barrier is firm now, the mana bond flowing strong and fast. The rune on the rusted old gates glows fiery blue. The mage directs her attention to it. " _Tu eorum non perdet hanc potestatum et extincti facti sunt."_

The rune flares. The mage flinches and takes a step back into the streetlight. It puddles around her, glinting off the coils of black braids and turning her long red dress the color of clotting blood. The harsh light illuminates the sleek contours of her face, the piercing dark eyes and narrow pale chin and scarlet mouth twisted in frustration. Gwen stiffens in surprise. The woman is only a few years older than her.

The mage takes another step back. Gwen waits for her to curse or walk away, but the woman only purses her lips, smooths her immaculate dress, and sighs. " _Ilen en-mar ey sa-hei Sobekneferu,"_ she says in a language Gwen has never heard before. The streetlight turns scarlet as mana particles shimmer into existence. Gwen clutches the barrier tighter. _Gil?_

Her Servant doesn't respond. The red mist expands, surging upwards. A shadow materializes within it, half-hidden by the swirling cloud. Gwen's eyes widen. The shadow is definitely a Servant, but the dense cloud of mana remains even after materialization. Its shifting outlines gradually take on shape, until a massive woman with the pointed ears and head of a cat looms over the front gates.

 _Gil?_ She says again, much louder. Naturally, he doesn't answer. The shadow inside the cloud raises a fist.

"Good kitty," Gwen whispers as the massive figure mimics its movements and lifts a clenched hand. Her voice trails off. "Nice kitty…"

The mage smiles. " _Ha-wi."_

The giant brings its fist crashing down on the barrier. Gwen braces for impact.

The next thing she knows, she's on the floor. Gil's face fills her vision, his crimson eyes blazing. "You fool," he growls, and adds something in his own guttural language.

Gwen bolts to her feet. "The barrier–" she gasps and sways, suddenly weak. The mana bond yanks at her guts like the tide pulling out.

Gil plucks her up by the scruff of her neck like a kitten before she can fall. "You just tried to take the full force of a Servant," he snaps. "If I had not pulled you away in time you would be dead."

Her mana is a weak throbbing burn behind her eyes. Just one hit. That's all it took.

"The barrier," she manages, trying to pry his grip loose. "I need to be touching it–"

"I will t–" Gil says, and then the mana backlash hits and thunder roars in her ears as she faints.

Gil is still looming over her when she opens her eyes for the second time, feeling as though someone clashed cymbals inside her brain. "Ow," she says weakly.

"Release the barrier," Gil says curtly. Gwen tries to sit up and collapses back into his lap, the world spinning around her. "I can't," she croaks. "We're not ready–"

"Open the barrier, Gwenhwyfar." Gil's eyes glitter dangerously. She gulps. "I can't reach the door."

"Release the mana bond, then. They will break through one way or another."

Face burning, she reaches inside of herself, and hesitates. "I can't fight them. Not like this," she whispers. "If -if I hold the barrier, try to buy some time…"

Gil stands, dumping her off his lap. She looks up at him through her tangled hair, startled. "I will handle it," he says brusquely. "Release the barrier. And stay inside."

"Gil–"

" _Now_ , little master."

The nickname makes her flinch. She swallows hard and reaches out to him. "Help me up."

For once he doesn't snap at her for disrespect, just pulls her up wordlessly. That alone tells her how serious the situation is. She takes a deep breath and reaches inside herself for the mana bond. The fiery blue current leading to the barrier is barely a trickle. She forces a harsh breath out and cuts the connection.

Silence. Even without her magical vision, she can sense the rune explode in a shower of blue sparks, feel the barrier evaporate without a sound. Gil releases his grip on her shoulders and faces the door, his chin tilted high, battle lust beginning to spark in his eyes. Golden portals shimmer around him, glinting off his armor. She remembers, suddenly, her first time seeing him, standing tall and proud in the center of the summoning circle in armor so bright it hurt her eyes and a razor-thin smile and those blazing crimson eyes scorching her through.

"Gil," she whispers again, suddenly afraid. He glances back at her and gives her that arrogant catlike smile. "Do you doubt your king?"

She shakes her head. He turns his back on her again. "Then go find a corner to cower in, Gwenhwyfar. I will call you when it is done."

She nods wordlessly and starts to retreat back through doorway, her eyes never leaving the front door. She can feel the power blazing behind the scarred wood.

But the mage doesn't come through the front door.

The explosion catches her in a blast of heat and flings her through the living room doorway like a ragdoll. The second wrenching force almost jerks her left arm out of its socket as it yanks her away from the stone fireplace and into the velvet sofa. She rolls off it and onto the floor, wheezing as air comes back into her lungs. Gil stands over her, his Gate rippling into existence around him. She hadn't even seen him move.

The mage stands in the center of a glowing red barrier. Debris from the gaping hole where half the wall used to be crumbles around her, disintegrating in a flash of flame where it meets her barrier. The cloud– cat? Woman? Servant?- looms over her, half-crouched as it forces its way through the too-small gap above her. Its outline blurs, funneling tighter until it loses its shape completely. The mage waits calmly for it to filter inside the manor in a tight-knit cloud before speaking. " _Fah drowah,_ " she says, and the barrier vanishes. She steps delicately over the fallen rubble and looks up to face Gil. A smile curves her red lips. Her English is perfect, unaccented by other languages. "King of Hero–"

The spear brushes past her cheek, so close a stray hair in one of her braids waves gently from its passing. The mage barely blinks. "I am–"

The next weapon stops a few inches from her heart. The red cloud growls, its misshapen fingers gripping the blade. Gil lifts a pale brow. "Impressive," he says mockingly. "But can you stop more than one?" He spreads his arms. His Gate shimmers, portal after portal rippling into existence until over twenty fill the room.

The mage only smiles. " _Sa-per._ "

The cloud billows wide. The weapons strike it simultaneously. Particles flare and vanish and reappear in the same heartbeat. The cloud wavers. The weapons clatter to the floor amidst the flash of dying and dead particles. Gil barely glances at them. His expression doesn't change, but the corner of his mouth twitches downwards. Another volley bursts out and is deflected by the cloud. This time Gil frowns.

The mage steps forward. The cloud parts to let her through, hovering around her. One part of the swarm stays cohesive no matter how the cloud shifts, Gwen notices. The shadow inside it blurs in and out of sight– a tall silhouette, black hair, white clothes, a serpent crown, piercing kohl-rimmed dark eyes– before the cloud thickens again and blocks it from view.

"Now may I speak?" the mage inquires, a faint mocking edge to her polite tone. Gil's eyes glitter. "It seems you will whether I wish it or not."

The woman inclines her head. "I heard the Einzberns had summoned the great King of Heroes. Their mage is third-rate, naturally" – she glances at Gwen, her mouth curling in a faint sneer– "and I was surprised that they, even with all their trickery, could manage it. Still, you are here, and it is obvious this _child_ is unworthy of you."

"What do you want, witch?" Gil says sharply, cutting her off. "I have little patience for words now."

"I want you," she says smoothly. Halfway through crawling behind the couch, Gwen freezes. She can't see Gil's face anymore, but his voice is suddenly amused. "How ambitious of you. And you think I will simply agree to become your Servant?"

The mage throws her head back proudly. "I am Leilani Iselma, of the great Iselma magus. We are descended directly from the Valuayeta, one of the three founding mage families of the Clock Tower Association. I am heir to some of the most powerful magus in the world. I am backed by one of the greatest mage families in England. Surely I am a better Master than some third-rate mage the Einzbern plucked from obscurity and forced you to obey."

 _I had forgotten how much mages like to ramble about their bloodlines._ Gil's voice in her head is peeved. _As if blood is all that matters._

Gwen manages a smile as she crouches behind the sofa and reaches for her penknife. _Keep her rambling._ The sharp blade draws a thin line of blood from the pad of her thumb. She presses it to the hardwood floor and starts sketching runes. _I only need a few moments._

 _I grow weary of this,_ he retorts. _Make it quick._

 _Don't agree, then._ She finishes the line of runes and pauses. _Gil. Thank you._

A glow of pride trickles through their mental link. But all he says is, _If you make me listen to such drivel any longer I may accept her offer. You are too weak to fight anyhow._

 _That's where you come in,_ she retorts. The runes glow as she touches the first one. Spoken spells have never been her forte– they use too much blunt power for her tastes– but right now a proper blood bond is too risky. Her mana levels are dangerously low, even with Gil's bond linking their power. Gott, if only she hadn't been such an idiot and relied on her own defenses. If only she'd taken the time to use the spells she'd found, to tap into the ley lines–

 _Zerbröckeln,"_ she whispers. A jagged crack shoots out from the runes, snaking beneath the couch. She guides it to where the mage is still talking, her dark eyes focused on Gil. _Now._

"You think you are worthy?" Gil's voice is a mocking imitation of Leilani's proud tone. "Prove it." He gestures. The cloud swarms to protect its Master, but the Gate tilts abruptly, aiming at the floor beneath Leilani. The sword embeds itself hilt-deep in the wood between her feet and explodes.

Gwen lunges to tap the final rune and curls into a ball behind the sofa as debris spatters the furniture. The barrier flares up to shield Gil and herself. He watches, dispassionate, as the dust settles and Leilani's shriek goes abruptly silent.

Gwen coughs. "A Noble Phantasm on top of the destruction spell?"

Gil sounds smug. "It seemed fitting."

"Can't argue with that," she says, grinning as she gets to her feet to inspect the damage. Gil grips her arm as she moves towards the gaping hole in the floor. "Wait."

"There's no way she survived that," Gwen protests. Gil doesn't answer, his scarlet gaze intent on the rubble. Gwen sighs and lifts a hand. " _Beleuchten._ "

An orb of light ignites above the hole, illuminating the broken wood and fallen plaster. The old owner is going to be furious, Gwen thinks with a sigh. So much for the ancestral mage hold.

Gil twitches a finger. A spear goes hurtling into the abyss. There's a dull clatter as it strikes the stone floor of the basement, but no hiss from the cloud, no scream from the mage.

Gwen glances at Gil. Even if the mage is dead, the Servant should linger for at least a day on their own mana reserves. There's no way the explosion killed it. That means it's either fled at the death of its Master– or it's waiting.

Gil starts forward. Now it's her turn to grab his arm. "Wait."

He glares down at her. "Would you care to go first?"

"No, I just think we should wait a minute." Now that the adrenaline is fading, the mana loss and leftover panic are making her knees weak. "Maybe we should retreat."

"Retreat where, Gwenhwyfar?" Gil shakes her off roughly and strides forward. "They have attacked our gates. It is time for retribution."

"I still think we should wait," she mutters, but he's already marching towards the edge. She heaves a sigh and stumbles after him. The gap looms at her feet, easily a fifteen-foot drop onto stone. If Lei-what's-her-face did survive, the fall alone should have incapacitated her. She peers down into the darkness. No sign of movement. The orb dips lower at a flick of her wrist. Now she can see the shattered wood piled like kindling, the fallen beams in the middle of the bookcases and desks. There's no sign of the cloud or the mage. Either they're buried beneath the rubble, or they're hiding somewhere in the darkness beyond the debris.

She fervently hopes they're buried.

Gil steps over the edge and plummets past the orb. She hears him land heavily in a clatter of armor and the snap of a beam. _No sign of either,_ he reports, sounding ever so faintly puzzled. Gwen inches closer to the gap. _I guess we should look for a body._

 _I cannot sense the Servant. I require more light._

Gwen sighs and traces a rune in the air. " _Strahlend._ " The orb expands into a tiny sun, casting harsh white light on every surface and edge in the basement. She ignores the growing ebb to her strength.

Armor clinks as Gil moves past the rubble. _Perhaps we should–_

" _W'peh!"_ a voice shouts. The rubble pile shifts. Gil whirls, moving faster than his armor should allow, his Gate rippling open–

The cloud surges out of the rubble, swarming him, the shadow lunging with clawed fingers–

Wild dark eyes meet hers from beneath a collapsing beam. " _Heqat,"_ Leilani shouts.

The edges of the hole crumble beneath her. Gwen staggers back. "Gil!"

Gil's head snaps in her direction, but the cloud is surrounding him, diving at his unprotected head as he flails at it, cursing in his own language. Leilani floats out of the rubble, her dark braids swinging loose around her face, her red lipstick smeared, her face twisted in frustration. " _Hu-ai."_

The floorboards give way.

And Gwen falls.


	5. Checkmate

**CHAPTER FIVE**

Checkmate

She's falling.

She's had this nightmare a thousand times– the drop, her stomach plummeting, the impact and the crunch of bone on stone before she wakes up in a cold sweat.

But this time she's awake.

The rubble mound races up towards her. She sees Leilani's triumphant dark eyes shining beneath her, Gil's wide scarlet ones inside the red cloud. She closes her eyes as his lips form a word she's only heard once before.

" _Enkidu."_

She barely feels the jerk. Metal, warm as human flesh, twines smoothly around her arms and down her torso, wrapping her in its reassuringly firm grip. She opens her eyes again, breathing hard. The nearest beam is two inches from her curled toes. Gates shimmer on either side of her, golden chains pulled taut into their depths. She looks down shakily to meet Gil's unreadable gaze.

Beneath her, balanced on the top of the rubble, Leilani begins to chant. " _Sahed ey stahp–"_

A spear flicks a braid from her crown. She breaks off with a sharp breath, one hand flying to the line of blood on her temple. Gil grunts in frustration as the cloud blocks his second spear.

Gwen takes advantage of Leilani's distraction to cautiously stretch one foot out. The chains ease their grip as she tentatively settles her toes, then the rest of herself, onto the beam. She exhales, still shaky from the drop. "Go," she whispers to the chains. "And thank you."

The chains slither back into the Gates, pausing to give her arms a reassuring squeeze before they vanish. They reappear a heartbeat later beside Gil, lashing out to pierce the cloud and find the figure at its core.

A woman shrieks. Gwen catches a glimpse of the shape being dragged into the air– long black hair, long white robes, a bronzed face– before the cloud abandons Gil to swarm around its master frantically. Gil bares his teeth in a wolfish grin and says something in his own language. The chains snap taut.

Gwen doesn't try for a second look: she's too busy scrambling down the beam as Leilani hurls fireballs at her from above. " _A'max!"_

The fireball skims Gwen's shoulder. She yelps as it ignites the lace of her nightgown and fumbles to rip the fabric away. Broken plaster and stone cut her bare feet as she dives behind the massive wood desk, her fingers scorched and throbbing.

" _A'max!"_ Leilani shouts again.

" _Verheizen!"_ Gwen retaliates, and ducks as the third fireball singes the top of the desk. Leilani dodges the fiery arrow soaring towards her, but the movement makes her lose her balance on the shifting rubble. She topples with an undignified shriek. Gwen has a split second of satisfaction before the mage snaps " _N'dah!"_ and her fall turns into a gentle descent.

" _Atem,"_ Gwen says quickly. A gust of wind slams into Leilani just as her toes brush the floor. She stumbles, still in the grip of her own magic. Gwen stands and scrawls a rune in the air in blue fire. " _Verbrennen!"_

Blue flames flare up to engulf the mage. Leilani reacts with inhuman speed. " _Drowah!"_ she cries, and the flames flicker harmlessly against the red barrier that bursts out of her skin. Gwen drops back down behind the desk. _Gil?_ she appeals, but Gil is ignoring her, his mind dark with battle lust.

 _At least_ someone's _enjoying this,_ she thinks exasperatedly, hunkering down between the wide legs of the desk. The runes flare weakly as she scribbles them on the wood. She can feel her mana circuits burning with the effort, but Gil's vast reservoir of mana is flowing into her through their bond and the skull-cracking headache she'll have tomorrow from the overdose is worth it now.

She risks a glance over the rim of the desk. Leilani is still trying to extinguish the flames from inside her barrier. On the other side of the rubble pile, Gil is cursing as he swats at the cloud. Gates ripple above him, anchoring the tangle of chains that hold a limp woman in place. Her bare arms are twisted to either side, her head hung low on her chest, her face hidden by rivers of black hair falling to her waist. She isn't struggling. The cloud hovers at her feet, mana particles sparking and fading and reappearing as Gil's arsenal tries to rip its way through.

A bolt of fire skims past her head. Gwen hastily ducks back down as Leilani starts to round the desk at a wary distance, flames crackling in one hand. Her tattered and dusty dress is now singed and smeared with charcoal, and the look on her face tells Gwen that the mage is officially pissed at her.

The last rune flares blue. Gwen presses a hand to the wood, grits her teeth, and flings open the bond connecting her to Gil. She can _feel_ him twitch from across the room as mana floods her circuits like a dam breaking.

 _Gwenhwyfar–_ he rumbles, but the roar between her ears drowns him out. The runes blaze to life. The barrier blazes up along with them, engulfing the desk in a six-foot wall of static flame. Through the shimmering air Gwen can see Leilani flinch back as the barrier almost closes on her toes. Gwen grins.

She's never been in a mage fight before, not a real one. The mock matches with the homunculi have never made her heart thud like this, like it's trying to break out of her ribcage. The adrenaline roars through her veins– she can almost _taste_ it, like copper on her tongue, like blood before the battle, as she leaps on top of the desk and slams her palms into the barrier.

 _Now_ she can fight.

Leilani takes several quick steps backwards and raises her hands. " _Drowah,"_ she says again, and her own barrier flickers up around her. The two mages face each other in silence for a moment. A thousand spells and curses and incantations are racing through Gwen's mind, and by the way Leilani's dark eyes flick frantically to and fro over an invisible list, she knows her opponent is doing the same.

 _This isn't a sparring match, Gwenhwyfar._ Gil, ever pragmatic. _Never let your enemy have the advantage._

 _I know,_ she snaps distractedly. With their bond wide open it's hard to focus on staying fused with the barrier. Her consciousness keeps slipping, blurring into Gil's. She takes a deep breath and feels his lungs fill. The grunt as he summons another Gate comes from her throat. Battle-lust clouds his– their– minds, honing his thoughts and intoxicating hers. Gwen grinds herself deeper into the barrier, using it to ground her mind away from the body that keeps blurring between a fifteen-year-old girl's and a demigod's. Mana is still pulsing through her veins like liquid fire, threatening to set her ablaze if she doesn't release it.

Too many. There are too many spells, too many options. She can't think. Her veins are torching, her mana circuits melting into agony–

Blue fire erupts out of the barrier. The spell is wordless, more instinct than incantation, but it makes Leilani take a step back inside her barrier, speaking quickly in Latin. The flames are already beginning to die away– she must have discovered the trick to it from the last attack– but for a few seconds she's distracted, her vision obstructed. Gwen seizes the advantage. " _Anstechen."_

A fiery arrow strikes the red barrier and crumples. Gwen grits her teeth and funnels more power into the next one. " _Anstechen!"_

The second arrow embeds itself in the barrier and stays there, quivering in midair. Leilani notices what she's doing. " _Tremefacio!"_ she cries, and Gwen stumbles and almost falls off the desk as the ground beneath her trembles. Leilani switches languages. " _Heh-sieh!"_ she says, and the third arrow struggles against an invisible force before whirling around and embedding itself in its own barrier. Gwen flinches and finds herself abruptly back in her own body. She reaches for Gil's mana and finds a river where seconds ago there had been an ocean.

 _I need more!_

 _You are overwhelming your mana circuits. Any more and they will overload,_ Gil says tersely, and cuts the connection off before she can argue. She yanks uselessly on their bond, frustrated. Even with Gil's mana, Leilani's attacks are overwhelming hers. She doesn't understand. She has Gil's power, a human mage shouldn't be able to match her–

" _Aperire cincinno. In virtute domum deomum,"_ Leilani lifts her hands, still chanting. " _Ego praecipio tibi aperuit ostium."_ Red mana appears, swirling around her. An invisible breeze sways the loose braids around her face. Gwen can feel the power thrumming in the air. This is a proper enchantment, an old one, not a quick word-spell. " _In virtute domum deomum murus corruet."_

The barrier trembles under Gwen's hands. She wavers and pulls the last of her consciousness back inside her body, releasing her link to the barrier. She can't risk another backlash, not now. Instead she seizes all the mana Gil will give her and channels it into the barrier. It steadies, glowing bright blue.

 _Stop defending and attack!_ Gil's voice reverberates around her skull. Gwen winces. _Hurry up and defeat the other Servant!_ she retorts.

Gil mutters something in his own guttural language. _You cannot always wait for me to come save you, Gwenhwyfar. Take care of the mage on your own._

Gwen refocuses on her physical vision. Ten feet away, Leilani is still chanting. The mage's eyes are glowing, crimson disks burning around her dark pupils, her black braids swirling around her face in a silent whirlwind. " _In nomine di veteris ego praecipio reserare portem!"_

The red barrier dissolves into a thousand glowing bolts that arc high overhead and come thudding down deep into the base of Gwen's barrier and explode in a flash of blinding light. Gwen staggers, blinking white spots from her vision, and reaches out both hands to steady herself against the barrier.

Her fingertips meet empty air. She falls forward as her barrier crumbles beneath her and diffuses into the scorched and cracked stone.

Her palms slap the floor. Agony shoots down her arms from her collarbone. Her shoulder hits the ground a breath later. She rolls instinctively and comes up staggering, scrambling to find her feet.

Leilani meets her a moment later, her knee slamming into Gwen's gut with paralyzing force. Gwen crumples to her knees and doubles over. Leilani moves back quickly to avoid the leftovers of Gwen's dinner as it spatters the stone. Even half-blinded with pain, Gwen almost laughs.

 _Gott, mages._

She shoves herself to her knees and convulses. Leilani takes another step back to avoid the vomit. Gwen thrusts a hand out, fingers curling open: " _Zurück!"_

Leilani stumbles mid-step. She regains her balance with a speed and grace Gwen would envy if her skull wasn't busy connecting with the side of the mage's right kneecap. Leilani goes down with a gasp. Gwen rolls in, not away, her head throbbing as she grabs a handful of braids blindly and yanks.

She's rewarded with a sharper gasp and pale fingers digging into her throat. Leilani thrashes, trying pry Gwen off of her, but the younger girl hangs on stubbornly, one hand fisted in Leilani's braids, pinning her head to the floor, one knee shoving the mage's shoulder down. Leilani writhes, her upper body pinned, and brings a leg up to knee Gwen viciously in the back.

Gwen grits her teeth and shifts one leg down across Leilani's thighs. The mage promptly bucks her hips, trying to dislodge her. Gwen sits back, yanks Leilani's head up by her hair, and slaps her as hard as she can.

Leilani goes limp, dazed. Gwen slams her back down and shoves a forearm into her throat. With her free hand she smears a thumb against the streak of charcoal on the mage's cheek and frantically starts to scribble a rune on her forehead.

Leilani recovers with inhuman speed, her fingers clawing at the arm choking her. It takes Gwen a moment to realize she's not just trying to loosen her grip– her blunt nails dig into the nerve in Gwen's wrist. Gwen jerks back, pain shooting up her arm. Leilani shoves her off and lunges to her feet, reaching up to wipe the rune away.

Too late.

The Einzbern crest over Gwen's heart burns. The activation word pops into her mind. " _Fangen!"_

The rune on Leilani's forehead glows blue. Gwen's mana circuits tingle as the spell races through them: incantations that would take minutes or hours to cast are already written into her veins through the crest. She barely notices the mana toll as blue light ripples over Leilani, cutting her voice off mid-sentence. Her eyes bulge. Her mouth continue to move without sound, her fingers scrabbling against the barrier. Blue tints her scarlet lips, her skin.

The enemy Servant shrieks. One of Gil's weapons must have made it past the cloud. Gwen glances over.

Gil's head is high, his eyes blazing with battlefury, a fierce smile on his lips. The cloud writhes around him, coalescing and dissolving, parrying each attack and being parried in turn.

"Impressive," he's saying. "But ultimately futile. My chains are made to hold gods. The stronger the immortal, the tighter they bind." He smirks. "And, judging by their grip, you are strong indeed. And yet you hide behind shadows and illusions like a coward." He narrows his eyes. "It has been many years since I summoned my chains. A pity, that they are wasted on one such as you." He gestures lazily. The chains tighten. The woman spasms, flinging her head back to glare down at him with flashing, kohl-lined eyes. Blood is blooming darkly on one shoulder of her gauzy white dress. Even twisted in pain and loathing, her face is inhumanly beautiful: her features fine-boned, statuesque, her mouth wide and full and vividly red against her bronzed skin, her almond-shaped eyes liquid black and long-lashed. There is power in those eyes, and a pride that rivals Gil's.

Gwen tears her gaze away, conscious of how easily her will was swayed towards those eyes. If she wasn't so used to Gil's own overwhelming aura–

 _Focus, Gwenhwyfar._ This time she isn't sure if it's her own voice or Gil's inside her head. She turns hastily back to Leilani.

The mage is on her hands and knees, her shoulders shaking soundlessly. Gwen watches grimly as the life starts to drain from her. Attack magic has never been the Einzberns' focus, but the few spells they did pass on are brutally effective. She bites her lower lip in repulsed fascination as Leilani's shoulders go still. The rune on her forehead flickers and dims to charcoal again.

Gwen exhales slowly and turns away, feeling a little sick. There's a faint click behind her eyes, like a door closing, as Gil cuts off the mana stream. Then there's only the frantic buzzing of the cloud and the faint crackle and clatter of weapons meeting mana.

Then a female voice breaks the silence.

" _W'peh,"_ it says, low and clear and husky and hauntingly beautiful. Gwen whirls. The woman is looking directly at her, her piercing dark eyes brimming with power as she says, " _Isfet."_

Gwen's knees slam into the stone. She doesn't feel it. She doesn't even hear Gil calling her name.

The pain is sudden and devastating. She screams as each vein in her body disintegrates, every molecule tearing apart and being strewn into oblivion and for a heart-stopping instant she is gone, erased from existence and cast into the void.

And then she is alive again, her heart thudding into the floor with each gasping breath and Gil's voice roaring in her skull. _Gwen! Gwen, awake. It is only an illusion–_

Gwen rolls onto her side, trembling. Tears stream sideways down her cheeks. There's saliva and snot dripping down her chin. She tries to wipe it away with her sleeve, but her arm is shaking. She's dimly aware of Leilani staggering to her feet a few yards away, pale and breathing raggedly. " _Iu–"_ she croaks, her voice cracking. " _Iudicabo te caesum ut crucifigeretur."_

Invisible hands flatten Gwen to the floor. She gasps as her arms are yanked to either side, her legs shoved together. Red-hot spikes of pain are thrust into her palms and the crossed soles of her feet. Gil whirls in her peripheral, his Gate swiveling towards her. The cloud swarms him. His weapons clatter to the floor, one after another.

The pain in her hands and feet intensifies. Gwen screams, her mind going blank. Leilani strides over to her, her hands thrust out palms-down to hold the spell, and kicks her taut right arm. There's an ugly snap. Gwen's scream turns shrill.

Leilani crosses swiftly over to her other side and presses one booted foot to Gwen's other arm, ignoring the blue flames that flicker in and out of the younger girl's skin. "Give me your Command Seals," she demands hoarsely.

Gwen gasps and chokes. Pain radiates from her mangled arm. Leilani leans harder. "Give them to me," she says urgently, her dark eyes burning into Gwen's. She lifts a hand, flames blazing in her fist, and reaches for Gwen's face. Gwen squeezes her eyes shut, tears streaming down her cheeks. A guttural whimper claws its way out of her throat.

Somewhere in the haze of pain, she hears Gil's voice.

"Enough."

Gwen opens her eyes. Leilani slowly pulls her hand away. "Don't move," she warns. "I'll kill her."

Gil snaps his fingers, ignoring her. His Gate vanishes. Leilani stiffens as he strides towards her, his arm clinking noisily. "Stop. Stay back!" Flames reappear in her palm. Gwen stifles a whimper.

Gil stops on the other side of her. "Enough," he says again. "You have proven yourself worthy."

Leilani hesitates, glancing across the room. Unspoken communication passes between her and her Servant. Slowly, her mouth a taut line, she lowers her hand again. "Release her," she says, nodding at her Servant.

Gil barely moves. The chains grudgingly slither back into their Gates and disappear with an apologetic clink. The woman falls lightly to her feet, her long black hair tumbling around her, and crosses the room swiftly to her Master's side. Leilani stands a little taller. "You will join us?"

Gil looks down at her impassively. Leilani swallows hard and lifts her narrow chin. There's a smear of charcoal on her cheek. Her lipstick is faded, her mass of braids dangling wildly around her face in slender strands, her red dress torn and stained with dust and soot and plaster. Her fingers twist nervously in the dirty fabric, but she holds her head high and holds his stare steadily. Grudging respect glints in Gil's eyes. "Yes."

Gwen yanks unconsciously on her invisible bonds. Pain sears through her. She goes limp again, gasping. Gil barely glances at her. She fumbles for their mental link and finds white noise. _Gil…?_

If Gil hears her, he gives no sign. His gaze flicks impassively from the woman to Leilani. The mage takes his silence as hesitation.

"There is no point in this battle," she says with a trace of her old arrogance, taking an impulsive step forward. Gil's eyes swivel back to her dispassionately. "We both know who will win. Your Master is weak and helpless, but you– _you_ are one of the strongest heroes. You deserve to win the Grail. You _can_ win it, if you join me. You see that, don't you?" she asks eagerly. The woman at her side moves slightly, and the flicker of emotion in Leilani's expression dies back to masked neutrality. "I ask you again– will you join me?"

Gil looks down at Gwen for the first time. She takes a shuddering breath. A tear trickles down her face and seeps into the corner of her mouth.

It's a bluff, of course, and she's grateful to him for saving her, even as her arm throbs and the nails burn white-hot in her flesh, and so she tries to look like a scared and helpless little girl so they'll be fooled. She wishes it were harder. She wishes, somewhere distantly in the daze of pain, that Gil would stop blocking her out– but she clutches their bond like a teddy bear anyway, and tries not to doubt.

Gil turns away. "You are strong enough, I suppose," he says. "But there is always a stronger Master."

"I am the youngest Holy Grail War representative for the Clock Tower Association in history," Leilani says proudly. "You will not find a stronger Master in this war."

Gil shrugs. "Why not?" he says, sounding suddenly bored. "You are the obvious choice."

Leilani's face lights. Her Servant moves again slightly, and she sobers again, though her eyes are still shining with triumph. "Your Command Seals–"

"No need. My Archer rank allows me to break my contract any time I wish."

The woman starts slightly. Leilani purses her lips. "Still, I must insist…"

"I will form a contract with you." Gil's eyes glitter warningly. "That is what you want, yes?"

The mage hesitates. "Yes. Yes, of course." She extends a slender white hand palm-down and starts to chant. Gil cuts her off. "One moment. There is still a matter to be taken care of," he says curtly, and looks down at Gwen. "Release her."

Leilani hesitates. The woman glances sharply at her, but the mage is already nodding. " _Fah,"_ she says quietly. Gwen gasps as the nails pinning her to the floor vanish. The pain in her hands and feet fades.

The pain from her arm hits a split second later, stabbing into her shoulder and chest like a knife. She gasps again and curls into a ball, cradling her arm to her chest.

Gil looks down at her. His Master manages to raise her head. The hope in her grey-blue eyes is visible even through the pain. Her breath comes in quick shallow shudders. There's a smear of blood across her left cheek from chin to ear. Her hair is black with it in places, stark against her too-pale face, and memory tugs at him. She looks like the child who summoned him, the ten-year-old with winter-white skin and those startling eyes and a thousand mana circuits throbbing beneath her skin like fire.

He had recognized it at once, of course. Bloodlines were always so obvious. He had even had a moment of appreciation for the Einzberns, who had so obviously recognized it too. She had been the obvious choice, despite being so young and so inexperienced and so very naive.

He had assumed time would change that. But his Master is looking up at him with that same absolute, child-like trust of a ten-year-old who had never seen the world, who had slipped her small hand in his as though he were the safest thing she knew.

It really is a pity. She had such potential.

"Gil?" Gwen whispers, and emotion flickers in his chest for a moment. Guilt. How annoying.

Gwen doesn't move as he reaches out and presses a fingertip to the lacy fabric over her collarbone, where her Command Seals are branded into her skin. The fool doesn't even try to use them, even though the trust in her face is quickly turning to desperation. "Gil," she says again helplessly.

For a brief moment he considers telling her. Maybe then she would at least know...but no, it is too late now…

"Gwenhwyfar," he says, and for the first time her name isn't a taunt, isn't a gentle mockery, isn't anything at all. "I release you as my Master."

 **A/N**

Coffee is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Also chocolate.


	6. Purgatory

**This chapter may or may not have been written while I ate Häagen-Dazs and cried over thesis. You have been warned.** **CHAPTER SIX**

Purgatory

 _Kill her._

Her broken arm throbs.

 _Prove your loyalty, King of Heroes. Kill her._

The street lights blur. For a moment she can see Leilani's pale face in the gloom. _Kill her._

She stumbles, staggers, almost falls, and catches herself again numbly. Her legs keep moving, following Gil's last harsh command: _Run._

 _Run._

A street light flickers overhead. Dies. Flares grudgingly back to life. The scene replays in her head, over and over and over. Gil's harsh voice:

 _There is no need. She is weak. Wounded._

A jagged stone cuts her foot. She stumbles again, gasps softly as her grip on her wrist falters. Pain screams through her arm. She hunches over and cradles it back to her chest, breathing raggedly. Her legs still move robotically. Häagen-Dazs

 _Even if she survives, she will only serve as an example. She is an Einzbern pawn, nothing more. Killing her would be an unnecessary effort._

The street lights are fading into the distance. She doesn't know where she is anymore. What had the woman said?

 _A show of mercy would not be unseemly. She is weak– let her run to the Church for sanctuary. Let her be an example of what happens to the enemies of the Iselma._

Where am I going?

 _Run._

I'm tired, Gil.

 _Run._

I'm so tired.

 _Run._

Gil's scarlet eyes snap at her out of the darkness. She can almost feel him shake her shivering fingers off his arm. Almost hear his voice echo out of the past. _I have no need of a weak Master._

She shivers. The icy wind bites into her bones, seeping through the cracks in her veins. She squints against the white blur of sky and snow. The blizzard rages around her, howling hungrily– or is that the wolves Fraulein Sesseman always threatened to feed her to?

Gilgamesh shines like a beacon in his golden armor even in the dark, his mana a glittering halo around him, untouched by the storm. She tries to move closer to him again and sinks waist-deep into a snowbank. Ice imprisons her. She can barely speak through her chattering teeth. "I-if I d-d-die y-you d-die too."

He snorts. _It will take more than this storm to kill me._

"Y-you n-n-need m-me."

 _There will always be another war. There will always be another Einzbern pawn. It is all the same to me._

"Y-you're w-wrong."

 _You dare correct your king?_ Anger sparks in those dismissive scarlet eyes. Anger– and the tiniest trace of curiosity. She reaches for him again. The cold snaps its heavy jaws around her arm and stops her short. It takes all her self-control to grit her teeth through the pain and keep from screaming. "Y-y-y–"

Gilgamesh looks down at her from his protective mana shield. _The Einzbern should stop sending children out to face the Northern winter if they cannot even be proper Masters._ The voice in her mind almost sounds like a sigh. There's a click, like a door opening a crack inside her head. Mana buzzes through her circuits, jolting her body back to life.

It takes her a moment to remember how to move her numb lips. Her mind is already drifting, her body succumbing to the cold again. But for those few seconds, she can move.

Gilgamesh starts as she lunges at him. Her gloved fingers find a leather crease in his armored wrist and she clings to him with all the strength in her small shivering body. "You're wrong," she says doggedly. "You n-need me t-too. Y-you need me t-to _win_." Her voice fails. She fumbles desperately for the door in her mind. It resists for a second, then opens. Emotions jumble through her in a kaleidoscope of thoughts and feelings. She screams through it: _You answered_ my _call!_ You _chose_ me _! What kind of king abandons his subjects?_

Gilgamesh never answers her. Mail-gloved hands catch her as she collapses into the snow. Mana surrounds her in a cloud of warmth.

Her legs stop moving. The memory distorts.

"Run, Gwenhywfar," Gil says mockingly, and then she is falling back into the snow, back into the cold and the dark.

Her bare foot hits something hard and metallic that spins away from her. The clatter jolts memory back into reality. The blizzard is gone. Gil is gone. She's standing on cracked cement, shivering in the bitter night air in her thin nightgown.

She sways, crumples, closes her eyes, and drifts into the dark.

* * *

He finds her on his doorstep an hour before dawn.

Heroic spirits do not sleep, and even if he's not quite sure what he is anymore, he's retained that particular quality. But he's grown used to spending the nights in a half-doze, his mind empty, and so when he hears the rusty creak of metal clattering against the pavement he's slipping off the balcony railing before he's even registered the sound.

He lands noiselessly in the courtyard and looks around. The wheelchair has been dislodged from its resting place. It lies on its side a few feet away. One rusted wheel still turns slowly in the hazy pre-dawn light. He walks over to it, frowning.

He is not worried about being seen –even in complete shade he is barely more than a pale shadow where there should not be a shadow, a flicker of peripheral movement– and in the hazy light he is not even that. Which has proved useful when it comes to some visitors, and much less useful for others.

Still frowning, he turns back to where the wheelchair used to be –and trips over the limp figure in the shadow of the balcony.

His first thought, as he collects himself, is annoyance at whoever dumped a body in his territory.

Then he realizes that he _tripped_.

He drops to one knee. Little wonder he hadn't noticed the body before; the small curled shape is half-hidden by the concrete pillar. The thin, lacy dress is a smear of white on the bleached pavement, the dark head blending with the shadows at the base of the pillar. The face is hidden beneath a tangle of dark hair, the bruised limbs thrown roughly to one side. One arm is crooked over the chest at an unnatural angle, and he feels a flicker of disgust towards the monster who would do this to a woman.

He reaches out and touches the waxen fingers sprawled by his boot.

And feels the joints bend stiffly.

He flinches back. Touches her fingers again, shock pulsing through him. Gingerly touches the pale wrist. His fingertips solidify as they come into contact with her skin. He catches his breath and rocks back on his heels.

Cén fáth? he thinks dazedly. He tries to pick up a loose pebble. It passes through his fingers like mist. He prods the dead woman's wrist again. Her flesh gives way beneath his scarred fingertips, softly, easily. It's like touching a doll; he can feel the texture of her skin, but not the temperature.

Fifty years, he thinks, sitting back again. Fifty years of nothingness, and suddenly…

He stares down at his hands. Soldier's hands, tanned and callused and marked with tiny white scars. He flexes his fingers, watching the muscles and tendons strain beneath the skin. He feels real. Then he blinks, and it takes a moment to find the outline of his own boots against the pavement again.

He touches his own arm. Solid. Touches the asphalt. His fingertips vanish through stone and cement without resistance. Touches the woman's arm. Sees the skin dimple.

Perhaps he has finally gone mad.

He reaches for the corpse with his other hand and catches himself, suddenly ashamed. Madness or not, a woman lies dead before him, and he has not even offered a prayer for her soul.

He bows his head and whispers, in a voice like the murmur of wind, a prayer for the dead, stumbling over the half-forgotten words. " _Solas Mhic Dé ar a n-anam…"_

He doesn't quite remember the final line, but he supposes God will understand. Slanting his gaze away respectfully, he reaches out to brush her hair away and close her eyes.

The woman stirs.

He jerks back.

A shudder like a sigh ripples through the limp body. The woman turns her head slightly. A dark curl spills across her cheek. Her fingers twitch. She tries to raise an arm, shudders again, and goes limp. Her dark lashes quiver.

"Do not be afraid," he murmurs automatically, overcoming his shock. "I will not harm you."

Hazy grey-blue eyes turn unseeingly up to him. If she heard him, she gives no sign. Her lips move soundlessly, her gaze over-bright and fixed intently on some point just above his shoulder. "…il," she whispers, and tries again to move her hair out of her eyes.

He gently presses her hand back to her wrist before she can move her broken arm and tucks her hair away from her face. "Do not be afraid," he says again.

Those faintly luminous eyes focus on him. She tries to speak again. He nods as though he understands. "Rest, lass," he says gently, one hand still on top of hers.

The woman –nay, girl– tries a third time to say something. She's younger than he first thought, much younger. Even disfigured by blood and soot, her features have an unmistakable softness to them, the round delicacy of a child's. She can't be older than thirteen, fourteen. No older than Grainne.

He sees again the burns covering her shoulders and arms, the arm clutched to her chest, the blood on her too-pale cheek. His grip on her hand tightens. "Everything will be all right," he promises, even as the voice in the back of his mind whispers _she is going to die._

The girl's lashes droop. The fingers of her broken arm twitch convulsively. There's an unnatural flush in her ashen cheeks, scarlet against her skin. Like someone painted a doll.

Cael's daughter had looked like that. The draoi had given sacrifices, the healers had mixed their herbs and shaken their heads, and Cael had stood there with a face like stone and tears rolling into his beard– but his eleven-year-old daughter had died the next day, and even Fionn and the Fianna and all their Fae allies could do nothing.

And he wonders, for a moment, if this is part of his punishment, to watch yet another girl die and be utterly helpless to stop it.

The girl stirs. The back of her hand brushes his palm faintly. Her throat works. Her voice is barely audible. "Don't leave," she whispers, and closes her eyes. Her head lolls as she lapses back into unconsciousness.

He grips her hand, his mind racing. He might be mad. She could be a fantasy, an illusion, a whisper of the past…

But she will die, if she stays here. A broken arm will not kill her, but the fever and cold and exposure and dehydration will. She might die anyway. He can almost hear the curse laughing at him. He can touch her, he can even try to save her, and she might die anyway.

But _Dia_ thrice-damn him if he does not at least try.

There's an apartment upstairs, one of the unlocked ones. It's filthy, the bare mattress is broken and moldy and there's glass strewn across the cement floor, but at least it will be shelter.

The girl stirs as he picks her up, careful to keep her arm slung across her chest. His hands solidify as he eases them beneath her bare shoulders and knees, tanned and scarred flesh rippling smoothly back into existence over his translucent wrists and forearms– and stops abruptly as the crook of his arm meets her nightgown. He flinches as she slips through his suddenly opaque hands and collapses limply back onto the pavement.

He reaches instinctively for her and stops as his fingers melt right through her nightgown. He draws back, bewildered, and tries again. This time his fingertips remain solid.

Realization dawns on him. He pulls away, watches his flesh dissolve into nothingness, and reaches for her shoulder again. His hand passes right through her. He touches her cheek. His fingertips brush her bloodied skin. He can almost feel the heat radiating from her.

 _Ó daor_.

With a silent apology to the unconscious girl, he slips a palm down the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades, and eases an arm beneath her bare knees. He lifts experimentally. His skin stays solid against hers.

With the girl held gingerly in front of him, he turns and heads inside the complex.

And prays.

Gwen blinks.

She's standing in a field, listening to the wind whisper through the grass and watching the billowing clouds roll by.

She doesn't remember how she got here. She supposes, distantly, that she should care. It feels vaguely important, like the nagging itch in the back of her mind reminding her that she's forgetting something.

But the grass is soft and warm and green between her bare toes, and the sky is an indescribable shade of blue, and the nagging itch is already fading and she wonders, does it really matter?

She doesn't remember when she started walking, either, but the scenery is changing. Now she's at the top of a hill, looking down at the field she was just standing in. The grass is a little sparser here, the breeze a little colder. She shivers and pulls the sleeves of her nightgown down over her hands.

"There you are, Gwenhwyfar," a familiar voice says impatiently behind her. She turns and breaks into a smile.

Gil is lounging on a low stone wall beneath the drooping branches of a pine. In the summer-hazy sunlight, with his flawless alabaster tunic and golden hair, he looks like an illustration from a story-book. Like a fairy prince without a forest, except Gil would frown if she compared him to a fairy or even a prince.

"Well?" Gil asks. She looks away from the familiar green hills, somehow unsurprised to see now he's sitting up and holding a cup of wine; one of the Einzberns' faded silver goblets, not a vessel from his Treasury. She walks over to him as he tilts the goblet pensively, watching the dark liquid swirl around the rim.

"A bit weak," he says. "The Einzberns always were, when it came to the Wars. The Grail could not have been created without them, of course, but even the Einzberns are, after all, only human. And Power can only be diluted so much." He takes a sip and makes a face. "And True Magic cannot be diluted at all for it to remain so." He tosses the cup away. It clatters against the crumbling stone and rolls down the hill and out of sight.

Gwen waits for the echoes to fade off the distant mountains. She recognizes them now, the blue-peaked mountains and the hills and the dirt-and-gravel road trailing its way to the cottage two hills over. She had never forgotten them.

 _In the blood_ , Nain used to say. _In the rock and heath and bones of the land. As long as a Brenin can find those he'll know where he belongs._

Gil nods as if he can hear her grandmother's voice. "She is right," he says. "A King will always know his kingdom."

She nods, like she usually does when Gil decides to spout sage wisdom she doesn't understand. She never understood most of Nain's sayings, and she doesn't understand most of Gil's, but now she's certain of one thing.

"This isn't real," she says calmly.

Gil snorts. "Of course it is real. Just because your feeble human mind happens to be unconscious at the moment does not make it any less real." He pats the wall besides him. Gwen sits obediently, smoothing the skirt of her nightgown over her lap. "I'm pretty sure hallucinating is the definition of something not being real," she says.

Gil dismisses that with a languid flick of his wrist. A Gate pops open at his knee. He reaches into it and pulls out an intricately carved goblet filled with more wine. "The unconscious mind also produces dreams. Does that make them any less real?"

"Um, yes?" says Gwen.

Gil slants a glare at her out of the corner of his eye. "You know nothing of the world, Gwenhwyfar Brenin."

Gwen, having heard this so many times that it's become more of a mantra than a rebuke, shrugs. "Then tell me. This is just a dream, isn't it? I know dreams are supposed to be visions from the gods or demons, at least that's what the ancients thought–" Gil's fingers twitch and she amends, "–and of course the ancients were –are– right about most things, but even Dioclitus of Alexandria says that the mind muddles everything and we can't know what's a vision and what's, um, what we had for dinner. And besides," she finishes, feeling as though Dioclitus of Alexandria had slightly better phrasing, "even if it is real, this–" she gestures at the field, the hills– "can't be. It's just a dream. Even visions aren't _really_ real."

Gil waits to finish his wine, sip by sip, before answering. Gwen laces and unlaces her fingers in her lap and tries to locate the nagging itch in the back of her mind. Maybe Dioclitus is right, she thinks placidly, maybe this is all that raspberry chocolate cake I had. Maybe Gil's just poking around in my dreams again–

 _Run, Gwenhwyfar._

Pain.

The wolves are chasing her –no, the blizzard–

 _I release you as my Master._

She blinks and realizes that Gil is talking. "It is true that most dreams are nothing more than fragments, fancies of mortal minds that mean less than nothing. But this place is real, yes? And I am certainly not a figment nor fancy –what in the Judge's name are you doing."

Gwen looks up at him innocently, one finger raised in mid-poke. "Just checking," she says, trying to tug her wrist out of his iron grip. He squeezes until she yelps and pokes her cheek, hard enough to make her squeak. "Satisfied?" he inquires, a little too politely. She nods meekly, one hand on her throbbing cheek.

"As I was saying," Gil continues, "I am neither figment nor a fancy, and neither is this place. Whether or not you are physically here is another matter, an unimportant one at that. It is real enough, even within your memories, and that is what matters." He pauses for her to nod understandingly, not understanding, and goes on, "As for me, the Master-Servant bond was broken, but such bonds leave an indelible mark on the soul of the mage. They are a connection of thoughts, emotions, memories that link the two souls between time and space. The bond may be broken, but those thoughts, emotions, and memories remain imprinted in the soul, and the deeper the bond, the stronger the imprint."

Gwen's forehead knits. "So…you're my memory of Gil?"

Gil snorts. "Hardly. The Grail is an approximation of True Magic. As such, it can wield such magic as would otherwise be impossible. I am not so much a memory as a shadow of the King of Heroes. The imprint he left in your soul even when he has been bound to another, and after five years, it is a large imprint indeed."

 _Bound to another._ Leilani's face flashes through her mind. The nagging itch digs deeper into her brain.

The agony of nothingness. Golden chains lowering her gently to the ground. Eating raspberry cake with Gil.

 _Run, Gwenhwyfar._

The comforting fog settles back over her thoughts. Gwen blinks and touches her suddenly aching temples. Gil's explanations always make her brain hurt a little. "So…this is a dream, but it's real?"

Gil's pale brows slant as though they're going over her lessons and she's stuck on a basic rule of magic. "Once again, you are asking the wrong questions, Gwenhwyfar. It is not _if_ you are here but _why_."

"Why am I here, then?"

Gil gestures. "Look around. What do you see?"

"This is Wales," she says immediately. "I grew up here. That's my Nain's cottage, over that hill there. I used to play with the village kids here." She stops, realizing she's slipped into Welsh without even thinking about it, but Gil is nodding. "As I said. This place is real enough, for you."

"But it's just a memory," Gwen says exasperatedly. She twists to face him, gripping the crumbling stone. The rough edge digs into her palm, sharp enough to jolt through the fog in her mind.

 _She is weak. Wounded._

 _Killing her would be unnecessary effort…_

Her own voice. _Then they will find a queen._

The clang shudders through her bones like thunder. Gil is standing over her, glittering in the darkness. _We are under attack._

Gwen shivers, suddenly cold. The wind is sharper now, biting through the thin fabric of her nightgown. The ache in her temples is getting worse.

Pain rips through her arm.

She's falling, falling…

"If this is a dream," she says in a small voice, "I'd like to wake up now."

Gil, for once, doesn't say anything. The corners of his mouth tug downwards as he opens another Gate and wordlessly takes out a third goblet.

The knot in her throat constricts. She swallows hard and asks, as carelessly as she can, "I can't, can I? Wake up."

Gil's expression is grim. He takes her knotted hands and wraps them firmly around the golden cup. "Drink," he orders.

"Oh no," Gwen says, terror of the unknown evaporating in the face of a very real, very familiar fear. "The last time you gave me wine from the Treasury–"

"That was a lesson," Gil says, as if having a tongue twice its usual size for a week is nothing to complain about. "And I did warn you that nectar has an unusual effect on mortals."

"And that other time–"

"Drink, Gwenhwyfar," Gil says in a tone that brooks no argument. Eyeing the dark liquid suspiciously, she takes a sip.

Spices dance on her tongue, carrying warmth down to her toes. She drains the cup, grateful for the heat that lights a fire in her veins and chases away the cold.

"Now," Gil says, relaxing back, "Tell me why you are here."

She looks at him, bright and gold against the drooping dark green of the pine, and suddenly it all seems obvious. "Because you brought me here. You called up the memory."

Gil waits.

The next answer is easy. "So this memory is important," Gwen says, and looks around and corrects herself. "This _place_ is important."

Gil takes the empty cup in her lap and tosses it carelessly into a Gate that blinks in and out of existence before Gwen has even registered it. "Continue," he says.

Gwen rocks forward, her forehead knitting. "The Brenins have lived here for centuries," she says, racking her brains to remember what Nain told her. "We've always lived in Wales."

"Fifteen centuries, to be precise," Gil says, his scarlet eyes glittering as he watches her. Gwen blinks and tries to fit that number to the vague history she knows, and gives up. Fifteen centuries. Over a thousand years.

 _In the blood and the rock and the heath and the bones._

"Elder Urich said my family was a mage line," she says, thinking out loud. "A mage line so old the magic had almost died. That we'd forgotten our roots, and forgot how to pass on our magic crest to the heirs, and that's why I'm only a second-rate mage."

"Mana crests carry knowledge from ancestor to descendent," Gil says. "But mana circuits are carried in the blood. As long as the bloodline holds…"

"He said the circuits are genetic. That I got some recessive gene from some ancestor and that's why I'm as strong as I am." She frowns. "That's why the Einzberns took me."

"The Einzberns are a dying bloodline," Gil says. "But they are not fools. They know mage bloodlines better than any, and they knew one of their own could never win the Grail. They have sought out mages for decades: outcasts, orphans, always those rejected from the great families. But the great families have heirs of their own, born from powerful bloodlines, and they never reject the strong. The Einzberns could never match them."

"Then why do they keep trying? Elder Ulrich is the last true Einzbern, and even his alchemy can't keep him alive forever. He's starting to decay– the Masters all deny it, but it's true. It's obvious just being in the same room as him." She grips the jagged stone tighter. The crest over her heart is burning itself into her skin all over again. "They made me heir. They think I can win. They must. Elder Ulrich would never have given me the crest otherwise– so why? Why me? Elder Ulrich said it himself, I'm just a second-rate mage from a forgotten bloodline, I never would have even been able to compete if not for the circuits and the spells they passed on– so why?"

"Perhaps," Gil says sardonically, "he was lying."

Gwen stares at him. He looks smug.

A few Latin curses that Herr Karr had told her to never, ever use spring temptingly to mind. She half wants to use them on herself.

Of course. It's so, stupidly obvious.

 _Another Einzbern pawn,_ Gil had said when she first summoned him. _I believe I told the elders that I would scatter their next Master to the four winds once I had torn him limb from limb._

And yet he'd agreed to be her Servant, to form a contract with a ten-year-old with no battle experience and even less experience as a mage, and she had been so proud because she had convinced him that she was special–

Gwen stands abruptly. "You knew," she said, whirling on him. "You knew this whole time that he was lying about my bloodline, and you never said anything?"

Gil yawns and stretches languidly. "Of course."

"So what am I?" she demands. Gil pauses mid-stretch to give her a warning look, but she's too angry to care. "Some side branch of one of the great families? Do I have divine ancestors? Am I a descendent of some famous hero or something? Is that why the Einzberns wanted me?"

"Not a side branch, no," he drawls. "And do not be a fool. All true heroes have divine blood. It's one and the same."

Gwen rakes her fingers through her tangled hair, her mind racing. Ancestry, bloodlines, the Einzberns, being taken from Nain…

 _Ancestry is the foundation of magic, for us_ , Herr Karr told her, once. _No matter how strong or weak the mage, it all comes back to our ancestors._

"So I'm, what, stronger than I think?" The words come tumbling out, spilling over each other. "I don't understand, why would that even matter? Wouldn't the Einzberns want me to be strong?" She shakes her head. "And the Masters– Herr Karr–"

Gil snorts. "Old men withering away whilst alive? Their mana circuits are so dusty I am surprised any of them still work. Potions, gems, artifacts that store mana; none of them can hold a candle to sheer, raw power." His eyes glitter. "And you, Gwenhwyfar Brenin, have far, far more natural power than I have seen in decades, perhaps centuries." He stands, towering over her, forcing her to take a step back. "Have you truly never wondered why they always warned so harshly against testing your limits? Why the rules they set never seemed to apply? The spells that warned of the mana toll that you never once experienced? Have you never wondered why the elders were so afraid of you challenging them?"

Gwen is still shaking her head. "But the blood magic–they always said I was weak– "

"Did any of the Masters ever erect a barrier? Did they ever bind a spell with their own blood? Blood magic requires brute power. Few mages can afford even the simplest spells."

"I _lost_ ," Gwen protests. "In my first ever mage fight. Leilani was stronger, faster–"

"You lost your _first ever mage fight_ , yes," Gil says, twisting her words mockingly. "Against a mage with much more experience, a better grasp of her magic and more control than I have seen from heroes. It is only natural. Any mage, in your place, would have died the moment their enemy stepped foot past the barrier."

Gwen blinks. "That's not even a fight."

"My point exactly." Gil sinks back onto the low wall. "You have always underestimated yourself, Gwenhwyfar. It is one of your most unappealing qualities."

Gwen wraps her arms around herself, feeling suddenly nauseous. The hazy blue sky swims across her vision. She remembers, now, with the same eerie calm as before. The attack. The fight. Her arm. And Gil…

She hugs herself tighter. "What does it matter?" Why do you even care?" she asks bitterly.

"You are asking the wrong questions again, Gwenhwyfar."

"I don't care," she snaps. "You're saying I'm descended from some famous hero or something and that I'm stronger than I thought and none of that matters because if it mattered you wouldn't have left!"

"Careful, Gwenhywfar." Gil's voice is dangerously soft. "I am telling you this for a reason. Do not offend my generosity."

Gwen opens her mouth, meets his gaze, and closes it again, her frustration brimming. The fog in her head is dissipating, leaving memories and churning emotions in her wake. She wants to scream at him, to sob, to beg him to come back and to slap the infuriating calm off his face.

"You left." Her voice quavers. She takes a shaky breath. She remembers, now, and the fear and frustration are nothing compared to the betrayal that stings her eyes and kindles white-hot rage in her chest. "You left. You broke the bond. You betrayed me. All this about bloodlines and power– if I were really that strong, you wouldn't have left!" Her voice rises to a whine. "Was she really that much better than me? Or were you just waiting to leave? Was I just some pathetic weak Master to you?"

Gil waits for her to finish, his expression oddly calm, but she doesn't stop. The words are spilling out, all the frustration and grief and rage and betrayal. "All that time– teaching me, helping me, saving my life in that storm when Ulrich threw me out to die, teaching me True Magic, showing me things even the Masters didn't know, being the _only_ good thing in my life– was that nothing to you?" Her voice breaks. "Did those five years mean _nothing_?"

She's trembling. Her eyes are burning and blurred with tears and her voice is quivering and her hands are shaking, white-knuckled in the folds of her dress no matter how tightly she grips it. Her grey eyes flash like thunderheads rolling across the distant mountains, the storm building, about to sweep down into the valley, and for a heartbeat she doesn't know whether she wants to hit him or burst into tears.

And Gil does nothing. He merely looks up at her, his calm mask-like, his scarlet gaze flat and unreadable, waiting patiently for the storm to break.

Her clenched fists unravel. She sags, suddenly worn. "You were the only one who cared," she whispers, and she can feel the tears burning behind her eyes now, but the anger keeps them at bay. "Or were you lying, too?"

"Gwen," he says.

She stares at him. For a moment– just a moment– he sounds almost gentle.

Then he yawns and clambers cat-like to his feet and says in his usual cynical tone, "I am merely an echo of the King of Heroes. A remnant." He pauses, and adds thoughtfully, "A regret, even."

A disbelieving snort escapes Gwen. Gil merely raises an eyebrow. "Even a king has regrets. Lives lost, wars unasked for, divine wrath caused by simple ignorance…" the tiniest hesitation, "the loss of a friend. Kings must willingly bear the world on their shoulders, and so they either carry it as a god might, untouched by human suffering, or else are crushed by their own human heart. And you, Gwenhwyfar, are very insignificant on the list of regrets a king must face, but a regret nonetheless." He touches her chin lightly. Gwen reluctantly looks up at him again, tears trickling down her face. There is no compassion in his gaze, only something like pity. He brushes a rough thumb beneath her eye before another tear can fall and reaches down to take her hand. "Come. There is something I wish to show you."

Gwen sniffles and wipes her eyes with her free hand. "Couldn't you have shown me when I wasn't hallucinating and maybe dying?"

"He –my true self– chose not to, obviously. There are other matters at stake. But he wanted you to know, and that is what is important. That is why I am here." He gestures to the cottage in the distance. Here, from the hilltop, Gwen can see smoke curling from the chimney despite the warm summer weather.

For a moment she wants to go up to the cottage, to push open the warped oak door and walk into Nain's sturdy arms and ask her _what do I do now, Nain? Where do I go from here?_

And Nain would hold her while she sobbed, and brew some tea that smelled like a rotting log, and tell her, _Well, Gwen, where do you want to go? Every path's a journey. Might as well pick one you like._

"She is right," Gil says, reading her thoughts once again. "Mortal lives are brief, but they can burn brightly, even in this crowded world. So, Gwenhwyfar Brenin, the question now is, will you continue on?"

Gwen scrubs her eyes with the heel of one hand and wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Do I have a choice?" she asks, her voice quavering.

"Yes," Gil says, his expression smothering her attempt to smile. Gwen looks down at her bare feet. "Assuming I live…I'm not a Master anymore, Gil. I'm not even an Einzbern pawn."

"No," he agrees. "You will be free to choose as you like. Remember, I did not leave you utterly helpless. And Fate can be…interesting."

Gwen sniffs. "Tell me about it," she says, and the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly. "Well, Gwenhwyfar? Will you awake from this dream?"

Gwen bites her lip. "Will I see you again?" she asks impulsively, clutching his hand. Gil promptly releases her. "That is a matter of Fate."

She sighs. "I suppose dying would be a boring end, wouldn't it?"

"This is not a jest, Gwenhwyfar."

"I know," she says, and wraps her arms around him and hugs him. Gil stiffens, then sighs. " _He_ would not allow this, you know."

"I know," she mumbles, burying her face in his robe. He smells like exotic spices and the tang of alcohol and metal and–what she didn't expect– sweat. "Thank you," she says, her voice muffled. "For everything."

A warm palm rests, very lightly, on the top of her head for a moment, then unceremoniously pries her off. "Awake, Gwen," he says.

And she does.

 **A/N**

To everyone who's stuck with me so far, thank you so much for your support, and please leave a review! Your comments make my day and keep me inspired to write this crazy way-too-complicated fanfic.

Thanks!

 **3 SpiritofaRose**


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